Tai-Pan Chinese Restaurant

Dim sum delight

By Cheryl Clark, Special to the Times UnionFirst published: Sunday, November 28, 2010

We are a family of dim sum addicts.

Dumplings in our house are as ephemeral as balloons in a porcupine nest. Our son learned to read with a board book called "Dim Sum Yum Yum." Our teenage niece spent a good portion of her summer vacation in China trying to perfect her dumpling technique.

We've indulged this passion at Tai-Pan in Halfmoon during leisurely Saturday and Sunday dim sum brunches for more than 15 years. The same two servers have been working the floor throughout that time, so they've seen us through early marriage and both pregnancies into our graying days. They've watched our children gobble up sesame-oil-infused jellyfish from their high chairs, and then grow old enough to understand what they were eating and balk. We've been once or twice for dinner, but I prefer the space in the sunshine, busy with brunching families.

It's a good idea to call ahead for a group of 8 or more, but the airy, minimalist Zen temple that owner Steve Chan designed in 1991 is so versatile, the servers can usually accommodate last-minute parties with a negligible wait. Four seating areas on different levels are connected by gentle ramps and stairs. The skylights and muted colors make the milieu feel peaceful and clean, even when it swells with diners.

In major cities, Hong-Kong-style dim sum carts are rolled from table to table, and you choose your dishes by sight. Tai-Pan's cartless approach, which is becoming more common, makes sense in this area because they do less volume and the food comes out of the kitchen crisper, hotter and fresher.

The experience starts with steaming pots of loose-leaf jasmine, chysanthemum or green tea. At least four large pots arrived during our meal for a total charge of $3.

There's no easy way to calculate the bill as you order, but it's always less than I expect it to be. I make dumplings at home, and the amount of time it takes my clumsy fingers to produce a dozen pretty packages makes me feel almost guilty about how little Tai-Pan charges.

The prices are from $1.95 to $2.25 for medium plates, from $3 to $3.50 for large plates and from $4 to $5 for extra-large plates. The paper check sheets don't specify the sizes or prices. During our meal, four adults and two children shared seven extra-large plates, 12 medium and five small for a food total of $84, or $14 a person. Even with a couple of large men with healthy appetites at the table, there were still a few little bits left over that no one could manage.

There is the temptation to check one of everything on the order form, which is written in Chinese characters and English. A little tailoring will make sure that there is someone in your party to eat the exotic bits, such as chicken claws. They are delicious, but the small bones and sticky gelatin scare some people away. Ginger beef tripe is light and herbal, but not everyone can stomach the thought of eating stomach.

I love beef tendon, which comes from the tough, fibrous bands of tissue that connect muscle to bone. The ancient Chinese secret is that if you braise it long enough, the tendon's collagen turns to gelatin. It gets toothlessly tender and exudes an unctuous, rich flavor that makes the meat centers in the brain shiver with delight. But yeah, some people won't try it because it looks funny.

There are things you may want more than one order of. We got two baskets of fluffy, filling barbecue-pork-filled steamed buns, figuring the children would each have one and the four adults would split the other two. We had to ask for a third order so my 7-year-old son could eat two more buns on his own (plus the filling from his little sister's bun.) Even when we thought we were stuffed, a single sweet fried sesame ball each begged for a follow-up, so two orders were in order.

Our procession of bamboo baskets and plates came with no particular order or cadence. The first was a steaming bowl of congee, the earth's most gratifying oatmeal alternative. The creamy rice gruel is so beloved by my children that they make up songs about it as we drive to dim sum. Intent on fishing out chunks of salt pork, they don't flinch at the greyish bits of thousand-year-old egg quivering in the porridge.

Other dishes we split up so everyone could get a taste. Sticky rice, which gives off a tantalizing, barnyardy smell when you unwrap the lotus leaves, was easy to share. A plate of clams cooked in fermented black bean and garlic yielded bites for everyone. Steamed greens in oyster sauce made it all the way around the table, followed by eggplant slices stuffed with shrimp paste and topped with crispy fried garlic.

Slippery rice sheet rolls required a knife and some dexterity to portion, but were worth the effort. The bean curd with scallions was also shifty on the chopsticks, so we all competed to chase the succulent bits off the plate. Orders of pork with cilantro, seafood and Chiu Chow vegetable dumplings and spicy shrimp balls yielded enough that everyone got at least three of something.

Usually the last thing to arrive is sesame balls. But there are no guarantees. Just when we thought the fat lady had sung, a little plate of smoked eel wrapped in buttery phyllo and secured like a bow tie with seaweed materialized, followed by little lumps of barbecued pork wrapped in glossy pastry topped with sesame seeds.